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The Paternity Test: Of Mardi Gras miracles and dumb luck

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The double-wide stroller, and the children it contains, watch the 2013 Endymion Mardi Gras parade from the sanctity of a side street, after briefly, and inadvertently, marching in the parade along barricaded Orleans Avenue.
(Photo by Keith Spera / NOLA.com | The Times-Picayune)

Our goal for the Krewe of Endymion parade was simple: Decamp to a house party along the Orleans Avenue route, where we’d be among fellow parents. The key: arriving before the parade.

We get a late start. Provisioning three children age 5 and under is neither quick nor easy. Supplies and equipment rival that of an Arctic expedition.

Finally, we park in a corner of Lakeview alongside Interstate 610 and hike over the elevated railroad tracks that bisect Orleans Avenue. Baby Celia is strapped to my wife; I push Sophie and younger brother Sam in a double-wide stroller.

Dodging horse manure and plastic bag tumbleweeds, we plunge in and run the gantlet. Riders dispense beads and stuffed toys. Sophie marvels at the sparkling Endymion queen in this semiprivate parade viewing. We couldn’t have planned this better, I think.

Eventually, we funnel into the barricaded stretch of Orleans Avenue. It is 4 p.m.; the parade doesn’t roll for another 30 minutes. Plenty of time to get off the route before cross streets are closed.

A solid plan, except Endymion actually rolls at 4.

The lead units lurch to life as we stroll by. Still, turning back doesn’t seem necessary — surely there’s a break in the barricades up ahead at City Park Avenue.

There isn’t. The barricades are interlocked, backed by an impenetrable forest of ladders and chairs, manned by people who staked their claim hours ago. The unbroken line stretches all the way to Carrollton Avenue, a distance of seven very long blocks.

Endymion is now in full swing and we, inadvertently, are part of it. Navigating inside a parade with three small children is a delicate dance not without anxiety. I feel like a rodeo clown stuck in the chute with the bull.

An eddy forms on the right side of the street behind an idling SUV, an official parade vehicle. We shelter there as marching bands maneuver around the SUV. Pop star Kelly Clarkson rolls by aboard her float, chucking beads over our heads.

“Can you all get down lower?” says a woman on the other, correct side of the barricade. “You’re blocking our view.”

I assure her we intend to move. Of the thousands of spectators on Orleans Avenue, we are the only ones not behind the barricades. I have never felt so exposed. We might as well be streaking at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

My wife requests another beer from the stash beneath the stroller. I suggest that maybe now is not the best time, as she may need two free hands for whatever happens next.

At North St. Patrick Street, we ask a policeman to unhitch the barricades so we can escape. Nope, he says. You’ve got to go back the way you came.

We reverse course, but the narrow lane afforded by the parked SUV is gone – the vehicle has pulled into the parade. Bands are now free to fill the street’s full width.

And here comes the mighty St. Augustine High School Marching 100, powering around the bend. Cymbals crash and drums thunder; my wife covers Celia’s ears. The Marching 100 — more like 105, counting us — is a flash flood, sweeping us down the canyon.

I feel trapped and slightly desperate as I scan the mass of humanity packed cheek-to-jowl and six deep behind the barricades. A Mardi Gras miracle would be nice right about now.

A woman shouts my name. It is Stephanie, my high school girlfriend, standing in the front row. Ten feet away and three rows back, someone else calls to us: Darbi, one of Sam’s therapists. And next to Darbi, waving, is the principal of Sophie’s school.

What are the chances?

They each shout, “Give us your kids!” I start handing out children like Zulu coconuts.

“This is Ms. Stephanie,” I tell Sophie before passing her over the barricade to someone she’s never met. “Daddy’s known her a long time. Stay with her until we come back for you.”

Sam is none too pleased to be given to Darbi. I’m still not sure who got Celia. The principal’s sister, perhaps?

Kids distributed, my wife climbs the barricade. I collapse the stroller, which is still the size of an armchair, and hoist it over; it is sucked into the crowd. I follow, squeezing through to where the sidewalk should be.

Our double stroller has negotiated Times Square on a Saturday night, but deploying it in this bottleneck is impossible. I cart the useless stroller to the nearest cross street; my wife follows with Celia. Wife and baby secure, I go back for the kids left behind with the newly deputized caretakers.

Sophie and Stephanie have had a fine time. Fortunately, it was too loud for them to swap stories.

Sam is stoked to see his dad. He reaches out and attempts to fly to me, Superman-style. I spirit him and Sophie to freedom.

Regrouped, the family sets off down mostly empty St. Peter Street to our original destination. The party is stocked with the Carnival essentials: a keg, fried chicken, king cake, a port-o-let.

Celia still is attached to my wife. I shadow Sam. He waves his heart out at passing floats, fueled by a wiener, crackers, a baby food packet and blueberries. A fine Mardi Gras supper.

Twice my wife reminds me to change his diaper, and twice I forget. We later realize he’s gone the entire day without a diaper change. Or, even worse, a nap.

Sophie and classmate Ella lose interest in Endymion after a half-dozen floats. They’d rather pound a kid-size drum kit, color and host king cake picnics in the backyard.

I finally coax them to the front porch for the Pontchartrain Beach behemoth, the largest Mardi Gras float ever. Ella is promptly struck in the face by a heavy strand of beads. Tears follow.

Pontchartrain Beach is the final float. Strollers and wagons are repacked; the expedition moves out. Sam passes out cold. College kids party on the neutral ground like they don’t have children, or a care in the world, which is synonymous.

Orleans Avenue after Endymion looks like a tsunami has washed in — but a fun one.

A member of our party finds an iPhone on the sidewalk. The phone rings; its distraught owner is calling. Arrangements are made for phone and owner to be reunited — someone else’s Mardi Gras miracle.

We climb the levee to the railroad tracks near I-610 and cart the stroller and wagon over as train lights approach from both directions. Had we arrived five minutes later, we would have been stuck.

More dumb luck.

Under amber streetlights, we silently watch the trains rumble by. Sam awakens in yet another dreamscape, massive floats replaced by massive trains, both viewed up close, from ground level.

Earlier, Ella’s dad, Rob, had surveyed the debris of Orleans Avenue and concluded, “There are worse places we could have ended up.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Keith Spera can be reached at kspera@nola.com or 504.826.3470. Follow him on Twitter at KeithSpera. Read more installments of The Paternity Test at nola.com/family